Stinky
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Reyes helps Doggett get cleaned up after the events of "John Doe."


TITLE: "STINKY"  
  
AUTHOR: Kiki Cabou  
  
FEEDBACK: Better than oxygen. Kindly send a note to kcabou@hotmail.com. I always reply. (  
  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, don't sue.  
  
SUMMARY: Reyes helps Doggett clean up after the events of "John Doe."  
  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere. Just let me know.  
  
RATING: PG for one curse word (starts with "s") and "non-explicit" nudity. *blushes*  
  
CATEGORY: Vignette/Post Ep/DRF/Humor  
  
WARNING: This is technically DoggettTorture because, well, soap stings. But that's it.  
  
NOTES: I like Doggett. Since Doggett likes Reyes, I like Reyes. And yes, for all you literary freaks out there, the first line of this is shamelessly stolen from Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead." Which I hated and never finished. But I LOVED the first line. (  
  
***  
  
STINKY  
  
***  
  
John Doggett laughed.  
  
He couldn't do anything else, really. He was leaning against the fender of an old car, staring off into the sunset while Reyes, Scully, and Skinner talked with the Federales and made arrangements to get back to D.C.. He crossed his arms and felt the crows feet form on either side of his eyes as he laughed softly and lolled his head, appearing amused at something mysterious, but mostly trying to hide from anyone who might be looking at him. Doggett didn't normally laugh. But since he was on the verge of falling apart, he figured this was better than crying.  
  
After a while, he took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and decided to concentrate on the peachy hues of the sunset, willing his face into its usual impassive mask. He couldn't remember ever having been this tired or aching, not even during his training in the service. And that had been hell. A musky, very acrid odor hung about in the air, and he was amazed he could distinguish it, with all the dust in his nose. He was dusty everywhere. Dirty and dazed, too. It had been a hell of a week. Or month. He wasn't really sure how long he'd been gone.  
  
He sniffed the air again. The odor was still there.  
  
"Damn," he muttered. "'Zat me?"  
  
Just to check, he raised up one of his arms slightly and got a whiff of himself.  
  
"Whoo!" he choked out, and snorted, shaking his head and fanning the air in front of his face.  
  
Yep. It was him. He wondered vaguely how long it had been since he'd taken a shower. Those days at the garage had been long and hard, and but any memory of changing clothes escaped him. The rest of his memories were intact, though. That was good.  
  
Lost in trivial thoughts like this, mostly to keep the overpowering thought at bay  
  
my son is dead  
  
and staring at the sunset, he didn't notice Reyes coming up behind him. She gently put a hand on his shoulder without saying "John?" first and he jumped about a foot in the air and yelled in surprise, spinning around into attack mode. She yelped.  
  
They both started talking at once, in a cacophony that they somehow managed to understand.  
  
"I'm so sorry, John. I didn't mean to / Jesus, Monica, don't do that!"  
  
There was a pause.  
  
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be yell / You have every right."  
  
They both shut up and smiled sheepishly at each other.  
  
"Sorry I jumped," he said. "It's been … Well, it's been a pretty rough day."  
  
She snorted.  
  
"I think that's an understatement. Listen. Everything's set. A helicopter will be here in a few hours to get us a lift to the airport, where there will be a flight ready to get us back to D.C.. The motel down the street has good facilities. And Dana said, and I agree, that we should get you cleaned up so she can have a look at you and then we'll get you dressed and back home."  
  
"Cleaned up?" he asked stupidly.  
  
"Yes, John," she responded calmly. "Cleaned up. As in NOT caked in mud and blood and … whatever the hell that is on your pants."  
  
He looked at her with very tired eyes. She smiled at him.  
  
"Come on," she said. "To paraphrase from my all-time favorite movie …" and here she launched into a exaggerated Mexican accent, "Doggetts? We don't need no stinky Doggetts!"  
  
A realization struck him and he started laughing again. He stood up without the support of the fender, and she took his arm to give him some balance for the journey up the street.  
  
"Oh, my God. The Mexican bandits? Hedley Lamarr? From 'Blazing Saddles'? Your favorite movie is 'Blazing Saddles'?"  
  
"Mel Brooks forever, baby," she said proudly.  
  
"I guess I should've seen that comin', I mean, you are a bit, uh, different," he got out before she poked him to shut him up. "But I never knew that. I like his stuff too. Have you seen 'Robin Hood, Men in Tights?'"  
  
"You know, I did, but Robin Hood just reminded me of … promise me you won't laugh?"  
  
"I promise."  
  
"Okay. Brad!"  
  
"Brad Folmer?" he said, snickering.  
  
"Yeah," she said, cracking up. "It was crazy how much they looked alike. I really liked the blind watchman, though."  
  
"Oh, that guy was priceless."  
  
They had arrived at the motel. Reyes stayed behind Doggett as they walked through the deserted lobby and began to climb up a flight of stairs. Doggett was trying not to show it, but his legs were cramping up and walking was turning into trudging, and finally into stumbling. He banged his foot on a stair that he was supposed to step over and let out a hefty curse.  
  
"John?"  
  
He grunted in response and kept moving. She stayed behind him all the way up to the second floor, then went to his side, took his arm, and led him across the creaking floorboards to Room 2. The brass number was ready to fall off the door, which was brittle and dry and in desperate need of paint, like everything else in this town.  
  
Reyes pushed the door open to reveal a tiny, clean room with a bed and a dresser, and a small, bare room behind it. Doggett stepped in tentatively and she shut the door behind them both. She clapped her hands.  
  
"Okay. Why don't you get out of those clothes? Just leave them on the floor. I'll get the bath ready," she said, slipping into the small room behind where Doggett stood, trying to get out of his shirt.  
  
"Bath? Monica, I haven't had a bath since I was six years old. A shower's fine."  
  
She peeped out from the other room.  
  
"Sorry. 'Facilities' here pretty much means a big tub, soap, hot water, and some buckets. No showers."  
  
He groaned, annoyed at the lack of anything proper and at the fact that his shirt was fighting him.  
  
"I can do this myself," he said, even he still hadn't maneuvered his way out of any of his clothing.  
  
"Okay," was the wary response, accompanied by a blink of her soulful brown eyes that said something else. "I'll just leave the stuff for you."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
He heard her start to putter around in the bathroom and, exasperated, tried to get his shirt off one more time. For some reason, he couldn't get his arms to move that much without hurting. It was annoying. He fiddled and fussed, trying to get it off over his head this way and that, and finally gave up.  
  
He sat down on the bed and turned to his pants, but felt a presence. He looked up and saw her standing there, arms crossed, giving him a little Mona Lisa smile.  
  
He glared at her. "You mind turning around?"  
  
She sighed, walked over to him, and hitched the bottom of his shirt up to his armpits.  
  
"What in the hell are you doing?"  
  
She didn't respond. Instead, she bent one arm at the elbow and maneuvered it out of the sleeve, despite his protests. Arm number two was freed quickly, and she pulled the stained cloth up over his head.  
  
"I'm getting you naked," she said finally. "Pants off. Now."  
  
"I don't believe this," he muttered.  
  
Feeling slightly flushed, he nervously fumbled with the buckle on his belt. Reyes, annoyed, knocked his hands away and got it herself. She pulled his pants down as he kicked off his shoes and reached down slowly to peel off his socks. Now all he wore were a pair of very dirty boxer shorts.  
  
He gulped.  
  
"C'mon, John," she said gently. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."  
  
He let the boxers fall to the floor and stood up, a small part of him wishing to be anywhere but here, with no clothes on, with this woman. Another small part of him was annoyed by the fact that while he was naked, she wasn't.  
  
Reyes gasped. She couldn't help it. Underneath what his clothes usually covered were more bruises. Lots more. And cuts. Oh, this was not going to be pretty. Fortunately, he seemed too embarrassed by his state of undress to notice her once-over.  
  
He knew he should be putting up more of a fight to her seeing him in the buff, but frankly, he was too tired to really give a damn anymore who saw him doing what, and besides --- he knew Monica. She wasn't the sort of woman to make reports on any man's "particulars." Not that he had anything to be ashamed of.  
  
She quite graciously kept her eyes averted and led him into the "bathroom." It was really just a plain room with a large metal tub on the floor. There was some warm water in it, a big vat of water next to it, a large bowl, soap, and washcloths.  
  
Doggett looked at the tub, then put a foot in to test the water. Surprisingly, it was perfect. He climbed in and sat down, pulling his knees up to his chest slightly to fit in what was really a glorified bucket.  
  
Reyes rolled up her sleeves.  
  
"Now you just sit there. Don't move unless I say, okay?"  
  
"Okay," he muttered, and tiredly buried his face in his knees.  
  
That movement made the vertebrae stand out along his curved spine, and showed off the bumps and bruises on his back. She ignored that sight, moistening a washcloth and lathering it up with soap. Then she poured some of the hot water from the vat into the bowl, and unceremoniously dumped it on her partner's head.  
  
"Aaack!" he spluttered, and started coughing.  
  
"Sorry," she said.  
  
But then she began to scrub. Her touch was gentle, even though the soap stung the open cuts on his back and front. He took in her scent, a sweet mixture of oregano and smoke, as she got him lathered up all over, and gave him a quick rub-down underneath the bubbles. It felt good. Her hands were the first thing had had felt good to him in a long time, he thought with a sigh. A few minutes later, she was almost done.  
  
"Wow. You're actually a guy under all that dirt. Amazing," she joked.  
  
"Ha ha."  
  
"Okay, tilt your chin up. I have to get your face. Are your muscles feeling better?"  
  
"Yeah, a lot," he said, as he looked up at her and scrunched his eyes shut, preparing for the washcloth. "Anybody ever tell you you're really good with your hands?"  
  
"Yes," she said. "My boxing coach. Now close your mouth."  
  
She washed his face, then gave him a final rinse with the remaining hot water. He stood up to help her so the runoff in the tub wouldn't get all over him again, and remained there, shivering slightly in the bathroom's cool air, as she went for a towel.  
  
He peered out the window. It was dusk. She came back in with a few towels and wrapped him up, then helped him step out of the tub and pad back into the bedroom.  
  
He was surprised to see Scully there, sitting on the edge of the small bed, her black doctors' bag next to her. At the sight of him, cut, bruised up, wet, and newly pink from the bath, shock and horror burst across her face for a microsecond before being replaced by a calm smile.  
  
"Hi," she said. "All cleaned up?"  
  
"I guess," came the weary reply. "Man, I must really look like shit to get a reaction outta you."  
  
She smiled nervously for a second, then turned to Reyes. "Is he bleeding anywhere?"  
  
"Not seriously. I saw a couple of things under his ribs that might need butterflies, but it just looks like a lot of bruises, mostly, thank God. Here, John. Sit down. The bed's clean. Dana, did you bring some clothes?"  
  
"Yeah," she said, and started to dig through another bag on the floor as Doggett clambered onto the bed.  
  
He sat down heavily, a little dazed, and started drying off as Scully handed Reyes a bundle of fabric.  
  
"I want to examine you first," she said to Doggett.  
  
"Okay," he said with a yawn.  
  
The exam went very quickly. Scully put antiseptic on his cuts, rubbed some cream on the bigger bruises, bandaged what needed bandaging and gave him a tetanus booster. It was all cool and methodical. Her touch was skilled and precise, nothing like the sloppy, warm circles that Monica's hands had made on his aching back a few minutes ago. He decided sleepily that he liked his partner's hands better than Scully's.  
  
He hardly noticed as the two women helped him into clean, warm clothes and a padded jacket. He'd be needing it. The sun had gone down, so the temperatures had dipped dramatically. Soon after, Scully and Reyes started talking, and he leaned back against the headboard.  
  
He blinked. Or so he thought.  
  
There was a warmth on both of his cheeks and he opened his light blue eyes blearily, unaware that he'd fallen asleep. Reyes had cupped her hands around his face and was smiling at him.  
  
"Hey," she said. "The chopper's waiting. Waddaya say we go home, huh?"  
  
"Sounds good."  
  
She helped him to stand, Scully gathered her bags, and they both accompanied him out.  
  
After the tumult of the noisy chopper, the flight from San Antonio to Washington would have been the perfect place to catch some shut-eye, but Doggett couldn't sleep.  
  
He was sitting in 14C, right next to Scully, who had the window. Skinner and Reyes were in the row right behind him. The A.D. was leaning against the shuttered plastic, snoring, and Reyes was curled up like a cat, taking up the middle seat and the aisle seat, dozing with a blanket wrapped around her.  
  
Doggett and Scully looked at each other.  
  
"Can't sleep?" she asked.  
  
"Nope," he said. "Never could sleep on planes. I can't get over how Monica can do it."  
  
"Yeah, Mulder's the same way," Scully said. "I personally think that the designated skeptics are the ones who don't get any shut-eye. Believers? Heck, they'll sleep anywhere."  
  
Doggett chuckled. But he didn't close his eyes.  
  
When the flight reached D.C., Reyes and Skinner woke up. Amid the herd of people getting off the plane, Doggett, sleepier than ever, stumbled and almost knocked the woman in front of him to the ground. Skinner grabbed his arm to steady him. After collecting their bags and getting out of the terminal area, the four agents parted company at the airport parking garage. Scully took off for her Georgetown apartment and Skinner for his penthouse in Crystal City, while Reyes drove her partner home to Falls Church.  
  
***  
  
It was very late when they pulled up to 1650 Rose Court --- almost three in the morning. Reyes put her Explorer in park and turned the engine off.  
  
"Here we are," she said with a cheerful smile.  
  
"Thanks for the lift," Doggett said, unbuckling his seat belt, sure that here was where they would part company for the night.  
  
It wasn't. He opened his door and leaned his legs out, but the ground, a few feet below him, shifted suddenly from right to left and he felt his knees buckle. The world swam before his eyes. He hadn't even moved.  
  
"John, are you okay?"  
  
He looked up. Reyes was standing there, looking at him with concern and exhaustion. He was still in the passenger's seat, blinking.  
  
"No," he muttered. "I'm dizzy."  
  
"Oh, John," she sighed. "Were you feeling dizzy back in Mexico?"  
  
"I don't remember."  
  
He saw her face change from annoyed and peaked to just plain scared, and covered his ass quickly.  
  
"I mean I don't remember feeling dizzy, not that I don't remember ANYTHING. Jesus, Monica, calm down."  
  
"I'm not going to calm down, John," she said fiercely. "This is you."  
  
He was touched, but tried to assuage the situation just the same. "You know, maybe I got dizzy because I can't remember the last time I ate."  
  
"You forgot to eat?" she asked, incredulous.  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Well, do you want to eat now?" she asked, a bit exasperated.  
  
He shook his head "no," too tired to be hungry, and a little ashamed of this whole situation.  
  
"All right," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "That settles it. I'm not leaving you alone tonight."  
  
He sighed. "Monica, it's okay. I'm just tired, is all. I'll get something to eat tomorrow morning and everything will be fine. Go home."  
  
"No."  
  
He looked at her, a bit taken aback.  
  
"What?"  
  
"No. Come on. Let's get you inside and into bed."  
  
He blinked at her. Looking him squarely in the eye, she gave him a hand out of the car.  
  
"I mean what I say, John. I'm not leaving until I'm satisfied you're back to normal. Let's go."  
  
She took his hand as though this was the most natural thing in the world, shut the passenger door, and turned them both toward the house. They slowly climbed the steps.  
  
A few minutes later, Doggett stood in his bedroom, shrugging off his jacket and toeing off his shoes. He shook his head slightly in amazement at her taking charge of him. No one had done that in a while. She'd turned the bed down. He was getting his jeans off when he saw her come into the doorway, wearing socks and a bathrobe that had once been his wife's.  
  
"Hey," she said.  
  
"Hi."  
  
He sat down on the bed, leaned over painfully, and began to gingerly pull on the pair of pajama bottoms that she'd laid out for him. The floor creaked as she came into the room. Having seen what had happened to him, she knew it was painful for him to bend so much at the waist.  
  
"Stand up," she commanded gently. "Come on."  
  
He did, too tired to argue or do anything else besides follow orders. She pulled the p.j.'s up his legs and he got them up the rest of the way.  
  
"Okay, now. Into bed," she said quietly.  
  
He sat down heavily on the familiar mattress with a grunt, then lowered himself down all the way. He felt his crew-cut squash as his head hit the pillow. His shoulders relaxed and he stared up at her. He stopped moving, completely spent. She brought the covers all the way up to his chin and bunched them a little. They smiled at each other in the darkness.  
  
"Get some sleep now," she whispered. "If you need anything during the night, give a yell. I'm just down the hall in the guest room."  
  
He nodded, feeling comfortable under the covers, warm and at peace, somehow. She left the room, closing the door behind her, and he closed his eyes. Tomorrow morning he was going to get up very late, pretend he didn't work at the FBI, and there would be breakfast, and Monica.  
  
He realized he was lucky. If he'd remained a "desaparecido," he would have forgotten his identity, his past, his job. And now, thanks to the efforts of his friends, he had his life back. Pain included. But despite the myriad of memories that stung like onions, he couldn't help it --- he was happy. Among other things, he'd remembered his partner, a quirky, kind woman with a fierce heart, who hadn't given up on him. Perhaps someday they'd share more than just an office.  
  
He recalled watching the sunset on the fender in Nowhere, Mexico, and finally dropped off to sleep, thanking the powers that be for the amazing people in his life, and thinking that forgetting Monica Reyes was no laughing matter at all.  
  
THE END 


End file.
